


Until Then, Stay With Me

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, another adventure awaits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: “So...” she begins. “Here I am.”It's almost comical, how slowly he raises his head, how his eyes widen in bafflement, how quickly he manages to replace the shock with something much more meaningful, with relief and genuine delight and just a spark of self-content because he knew she'd come up with a good enough reason to join him, because he knew she misses their sense of adventure. It's been much too long, after all.“Here you are.”





	1. Feeling Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a while but inspiration finally struck. Red, Liz and another trip. I hope you like the setup and stay for the ride. Enjoy! 
> 
> P.S.: Thank you to everyone who still reads my fics and leaves comments even if I don’t publish anything new. I read and appreciate all of your thoughts. Thank you!

“You’re  _where_?”

“The Arctic Circle, Lizzie. I just told you. Please do listen.”

“I heard you, Red. Believing is the part I’m having trouble with.”

He says it like it’s nothing and she thinks she’s not nearly rested enough for his antics today and that she was expecting him at the Post Office tomorrow with coffee and a case and his fedora balanced on his knee, the way he tends to do when he sits down across from her at her desk, with that smug yet heartfelt smile that she’s grown so very fond of. Instead, he’s calling her from across the Atlantic. Instead, her day has just taken a turn for the worse.

“And what’s the reason for this sudden detour?”

“The northern lights.”

“The northern lights?”

“Yes, Aurora borealis. You might have seen them in nature documentaries, they’re—“

“I know what the northern lights are, Red.”

“Well, mostly they’re evasive. I’ve been trying to catch them for years but the atmospheric conditions never acted in my favor. This time, however, I’m feeling lucky.”

She’s listening somewhat stunned, somewhat impatiently, tries to make sense of what he's telling her but only arrives at one simple conclusion.

“So you won’t be around this week?”

“I’m afraid not, Lizzie." He pauses, mulls over his phrasing. Makes it seem spontaneous. "Then again...”

“What?”

“You could, of course, join me.”

“To chase the lights?”

“Yes."

“Red, I can’t just leave.”

“You’re right.”

“There’s files piling up on my desk.”

“I understand.”

“And my schedule doesn’t allow for a break.”

“That’s most unfortunate. Well, should you change your mind, I’ll be spending the remainder of the week in Hammerfest. There’s a pub there near the harbor. I’ve become well-acquainted with the owner over the past years and he’s quite knowledgeable in meteorology  _and_  Norwegian jazz of the 30s which makes for a most riveting combination.”

"Another time, maybe."

"Yes, another time."

It's heavy, the silence, the disappointment in his voice, and she doesn't quite know what to say.

He makes the choice for her.

"I'll talk to you when I get back. Goodbye, Lizzie."

When she puts down the phone, he feels impossibly far away.

* * *

She leaves the office early, her ability to concentrate suddenly nonexistent and her thoughts racing.

It's an absurd idea, of course. Preposterous and ridiculous and out of the question and very much  _him_. To disappear for a week and fly to another continent to seek out ethereal apparitions, to have the audacity to ask for her company, as if life was that simple, as if people didn't rely on her to investigate whatever case sparked their attention, as if, as if, as if.

It's at a traffic light when she finally takes a deep breath, when she looks up and spots it there, up in the evening sky and somewhere deep in her memory.

Polaris. A way home. A guiding light. And the sweet taste of possibility.

It's an absurd idea.

Preposterous.

Ridiculous.

Completely, utterly out of the question.

And so very,  _very_  tempting.

* * *

It doesn't take her long to find the right place. A helpful cab driver, some reliable intel from the locals, a quick walk. Life  _is_  that simple sometimes, she supposes. And yes, it's beautiful here. And yes, she hopes he's inside.

She picks up her bag and swings it over her shoulder, pushes the door open and steps in.

It's the fedora she notices first, her glance pulled into the right direction, past the bar and the other patrons, a booth in the back of the room and a man studying a map laid out on the table in front of him, his hat placed on the seat across as if he was saving the spot.

When she makes her way through the crowd and the chatter, she can't help but smile.

When she arrives at his table, she pushes his hat to the side and sits down without hesitation.

“So...” she begins. “Here I am.”

It's almost comical, how slowly he raises his head, how his eyes widen in bafflement, how quickly he manages to replace the shock with something much more meaningful, with relief and genuine delight and just a spark of self-content because he knew she'd come up with a good enough reason to join him, because he knew she misses their sense of adventure. It's been much too long, after all.

“Here you are.” He folds up his map to regain his composure, stares at her for a moment before he gathers his thoughts. “Can I get you a drink?“

“Tea, preferably.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She watches him as he walks over to the bar to place their order, takes off her coat and makes herself comfortable. She's always enjoyed these moments, rare as they may be, when the circumstances allow her to catch him off-guard, when she's a step ahead in whatever game they're playing. There's a challenge to it, a certain competitiveness, something  _fun_. It's what made her get on a plane last night. Or so she likes to tell herself.

„Welcome to Hammerfest, Lizzie.“ He returns with an assortment of snacks, local specialties,  _in case you're hungry_.

"Thank you."

"How was the flight?"

"Unexpected, mostly. I hadn't really planned on a transatlantic trip when I woke up yesterday."

"The greatest joys in life are unexpected."

"Ever the poet."

"I actually read that in a fortune cookie once. But I take the compliment." He savors the good-natured banter before his expression changes into something more serious. "May I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"When we spoke on the phone, you seemed adamant on not joining me. The files, your schedule, your general unwillingness to—"

"I must have missed the question," she teases.

"Why the change of heart?“

She smiles knowingly, as if she's solved a mystery he can't find the final clues to.

“Polaris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I spotted it last night on my drive home. And then a few hours later I ended up here.”

"I’m not sure I understand.“

"I was feeling lucky, Red. And I found you.“

“ _Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world._ ”

It's the server who interrupts them, who puts two mugs in the middle of the table with a knowing smile.

"Our celebratory tea." Red raises one cup in a toast, urges her with a nod to do the same. "To feeling lucky."

"To finding a light in the dark.“

"Yes. To finding a light in the dark.“

She thinks she’s glad she made the trip.

She thinks his fortune cookie wisdom is oddly endearing.

She thinks if the last couple of minutes have been any indication, Polaris was right all along.


	2. There's A Difference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was genuinely overwhelmed by all the love the first chapter received. I hope you like this new one just as much and stick along for the ride. Enjoy!

"So what exactly did I get myself into? How do we find your lights?“ she asks as he leads her out of the pub and into the chilly night.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm."

"Don't sound so surprised. I flew across the Atlantic to help you, Red. I think I've made my intentions very clear."

"Your  _intentions_?"

"Yes."

He pauses and watches her, raises his eyebrows in feigned innocence. "And those would be?"

"To help you find the lights. I just told you. Please  _do_  listen."

She grins and pulls him along, realizes a bit too late that she really has no idea which way they're going or where they'll be spending the night, where  _she'll_  be spending the night. She didn't exactly announce her need for accommodation, after all.

"Turn right," he whispers as they pass a dimly lit street. "We are headed up the hill."

He might have read her thoughts, she thinks, and wonders for a moment what else he would have found there, deep in her memory, the intentions she had so casually brushed aside,  _I was feeling lucky and I found you,_ the truths between the lines he surely didn't miss.

"Here we are."

She's almost grateful for the interruption as he stops in front of a red house, traditional and charming, just like a postcard, just like she'd imagined.

"Subtle," she quips with a light pat on his shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"The color."

He chuckles and unlocks the door, steps to the side to let her enter first. "Velkommen."

"You speak Norwegian?"

"Absolutely not. Hold on, let me take your coat."

She notices it then, the gentle grip of his hand on her wrist and the trace of his fingertips down her palm as he lets go almost immediately, surprised by his own impulse, surprised by a motion that felt a little too habitual, a little too comfortable.

"I think I'll leave it on for a while longer until my body temperature returns to normal," she tells him.

"There's a fireplace in the living room."

"Lead the way."

When she follows him down the hall, the skin on her wrist still tingles.

* * *

She forgets about her jetlag-induced exhaustion for the rest of the evening. There's tea and soup and the warmth of the fire, there's him covering her with a blanket and the rustling of the trees in the yard as they try to persevere against the icy gusts. There's periods of silence that feel comforting and  _good_ , moments during which the fact that they're here, together, matters much more than the words being said. There's knowing smiles and playful banter and the hours passing by until she closes her eyes for just a few seconds, until her breathing slows down, until the music stops.

It's his voice that wakes her and the dip of the cushions as he sits down on the edge of the couch, his hand lightly sliding down her arm.

"Lizzie? I'm sorry but I promise you'll be much more comfortable in an actual bed."

She wants to memorize it, the way he stares at her quite openly, the way he brushes strands of hair out of her face, she wants to remember his exact expression, and she thinks it must be her sleep-deprived mind that makes her lean in, just a fraction, recklessly and daring, yes, it must be her sleep-deprived mind that makes her shiver at the touch of his fingers.

"Still cold?" he asks.

"No, not exactly."

"Come on then."

He helps her get up and puts the blanket around her shoulders nonetheless, grabs her bag from the hall and leads her upstairs.

"It's the second door on the right," he instructs from behind as she follows his directions. "The guest room."

"I haven't even seen the rest of the house."

"It'll still be here in the morning."

It's the fatigue that guides her, that makes her stop and turn the knob.

One glance. That's all it takes. How the pillows have been arranged with such care, the flowers on the nightstand, the impossibly soft looking duvet and the stack of towels on the dresser, the slightly opened curtains and the lights of the harbor in the distance, it's all set up so perfectly, so neatly, that she understands right away.

Somewhere inside of her, a place she protects with some urgency, something awakens, something gleams.

"Were you expecting anybody?" she asks innocently.

"Not exactly."

“But you were feeling presumptuous.”

“I was feeling hopeful, Lizzie. There’s a difference.“

"It's lovely."

"I'm glad to hear it. My room is right next to yours. If you need anything—"

"—I'll be sure to knock."

"And you're all set?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I am."

"Good. That's good." There's more he wants to say, more he wants to  _do_ , but he couldn't find the right words if he tried. Not with her looking at him the way she does.

"You know, you never answered my question, Red. About the lights."

"I will let you know tomorrow. You should get some rest." He's already on his way out when he turns around once more. "We could go for a walk if you'd like. As stunning as the sky is by night, the Arctic is breathtaking by day."

"I'd like that."

"Wonderful. I'll see you in the morning then. Goodnight, Lizzie."

She won't see it, how he remains in front of her door for another minute or two, astonished, maybe, or simply relieved, simply happy, and a little overwhelmed, yes, that too.

He won't realize it, how she listens for his footsteps and encounters nothing but silence, except for a sigh, her very own, content and tired and somewhat excited.

And there, late at night, they'll remember a few quick seconds when she had briefly but unmistakably leaned forward and she will blame it on her drowsy state and he will make himself believe he imagined it.

And both will pretend that really, obviously, it was nothing.

And both will secretly wonder what made her do it.


	3. You're All Set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for the wonderful feedback. Red and Liz will be headed for that walk very soon. But first, breakfast.
> 
> Enjoy!

She wakes later than usual.

She doesn’t check for the exact time, but she can feel it because getting up doesn’t seem at all like an unpleasant prospect and her bones don’t feel as heavy as they did last night, no, she feels eager to start the day. With a long stretch she walks over to her bag, puts on an oversized sweater to go with her pajamas, and heads for the door. She almost misses it, the little piece of paper on the floor, only an inch from the threshold, neatly folded along the edges, and she thinks that judging by the structure even his notepads must be of impeccable quality. With rising curiosity, she opens it up and smiles at the unmistakable handwriting.

_Breakfast and coffee are waiting downstairs whenever you’re ready._

_P.S.: Good morning, Lizzie._

She thinks it'll be a good morning, indeed.

* * *

“I thought you didn’t speak Norwegian.”

She finds him at the kitchen table studying the paper and annotating some graphs she can’t decipher.

“I’m mostly interested in the forecast. Numbers and images. That’s about as far as my skills go.” He gets up and smoothes his vest as if to make himself look presentable. "Good morning.“

She wonders if she should have put on something nicer but shakes the thought immediately. They know each other well enough. She caught him once, in a t-shirt and boxers, sneaking down the hall of a safe house to grab some late night ice cream from the freezer. He still doesn't know she saw him that night. All in good time.

"Hi," she says casually. "I got your note."

“I figured you could use a good night's sleep.”

“Given I didn’t wake up once, you were absolutely correct.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, time to make good on my promise then.” She's still leaning against the doorframe a little awkwardly and he beckons her over. “Sit, Lizzie. Let me take care of the rest.”

She hasn't noticed it until now but the counter is covered in all kinds of breakfast specialties, a bit excessive, maybe, but certainly delicious.

“What would you like? Coffee, tea? I have about four types of bread, fruit, eggs, a variety of pastries, boller—"

"Boller?"

"Lightly sweetened buns. A true Norwegian classic."

"So it's images, numbers and pastry vocabulary."

"I suppose so."

“And you made all of that yourself?”

“Some of it, yes. I generally stock up on local specialties whenever I reside here."

“I think I’ll go with coffee and those buns you mentioned."

“Excellent choice.” She watches him as he prepares a plate and brings it over, can't really remember the last time she has seen him this joyful.

"Thank you."

"Let me get you some strawberry jam, too. It makes for the most wonderful combination with the rolls."

* * *

He's right. It does make for the most wonderful combination. In fact, the whole breakfast menu he's prepared is just about the best thing she's eaten in months.

“Remind me, why have I never hired you to make breakfast for me?” she asks in between bites.

"Oh, Lizzie." He pours himself another cup of coffee, looks at her impishly. “You couldn’t afford me.”

She can't help but laugh heartily before reaching for another pastry. "This is sinful, Red. This is gluttony."

"Being a little sinful has never hurt anybody."

She raises an eyebrow at him in amusement. Another fortune cookie, she thinks, but doesn't elaborate. "So what does your forecast tell us? How are our chances tonight?"

"I'm afraid not particularly fruitful. We need clear skies. Unfortunately the forecast predicts the exact opposite."

"But the weather changes quickly up here, doesn't it?"

"Yes, that's both the intricacy and the thrill of chasing the aurora. Half of it is luck. The other half is knowing where to look. Or knowing where to go."

"Like solving a case.“

"I would hope the percentages are split a bit differently there.“

"I suppose that depends. But it's gathering data and following a lead. Profiling the solar activity."

"You've done your research," he says with a smirk.

"Comes with the job."

"In any case, that's hours from now. How about we finish up breakfast and head for that walk I proposed last night?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Just for the record, Lizzie, you were too distracted by the pastries to be paying any attention to me whatsoever." He gathers the plates and places them on the counter. "Did you bring enough clothes? It's pretty frosty out there."

"I brought just about every warm piece of clothing I could find."

"Well, if you need anything else, there's a broad selection of additional layers in my closet. Gloves, hats, fleece jackets. Wool sweaters, as well. Which I highly recommend. Even socks."

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a fleece jacket."

"There's a first time for everything."

* * *

She absolutely does need that wool sweater, she realizes quickly when she opens the window in her room. And maybe those socks, too.

This is a different cold than she's used to, biting and sharp, and when she knocks on his door, he looks as if he half expected her.

"Come on, let's get you dressed up."

It's an unusual sight, the stacks of winter gear on the one side and the dress shirts and suits on the other, and he reaches for a traditional Norwegian woolen sweater to fit over her long-sleeved top.

"Try this one."

She pulls it over her head and catches herself thinking that it's strangely intimate to be wearing one of his items of clothing.

"How does that feel?" he asks, thankfully interrupting her train of thought.

"Cozy."

"It'll be a most reliable companion. Now all you need is a scarf to match it. One second."

He opens a drawer and finds what he had in mind immediately, steps closer and puts the scarf around her neck, adjusts it with some quick motions.

"Perfect. You're all set, Lizzie."

"Thank you."

She should move, she thinks, or maybe he should, but neither seem particularly inclined to do so, and he's still standing a little to close and she's still breathing a little too unsteadily.

"I'm going to change as well," he whispers after what seems like an eternity. "Then we should get going."

"Yes, sure."

As she heads for the door, he stops her one more time.

"It looks really nice on you. The sweater, I mean."

She turns around and smiles.

"Be careful, Red. I might not return it."

"That's a sacrifice I'm very much willing to make." With confidence, he starts unbuttoning his vest, still catching glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye. "Go on, Lizzie. I'll see you downstairs in a bit."


	4. Trust Me, Lizzie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is as much joy reading as it was writing it. Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Enjoy!

"You were right, Red."

"Yes," he responds with a nod. "Actually, you'll have to specify. About what exactly?"

"The sweater. I don't think I've ever felt this warm."

"Good. Very good. And the scarf?"

"Very reliable. And fashionable."  _Like someone else I know_ , she thinks, but keeps the words to herself.

They've been out and about all day, have stopped at little shops and restaurants all over town, have watched the clouds come in over the ocean, have watched the sun fight its way through the haze minutes later. It's peaceful here, peaceful and welcoming, and when he leads them up the hill to a bench overlooking the bay, she feels oddly at home, with him by her side and the sun slowly setting.

"So how often have you come here?" she asks after a few moments.

"I've lost count over the years. I do change it up every once in a while, move up and down the coast on occasion, but there's something about this corner of the world that always calls me back. The quiet, maybe. The chill in the air. Refreshes the mind, makes me breathe a little easier."

"You sound sentimental."

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"It's not a bad thing, Red."

"You're right. But it's something I don't let myself indulge in very often. There's not much room for sentimentality in my line of work."

She feels the same. The days go by so quickly now, case after case, and she so rarely takes a break, doesn't allow herself to reminisce about the past or ponder over what's to come.

"Why have you never mentioned it to me before?"

"My sentimental tendencies?"

"No, this trip you take."

"Maybe the timing wasn't right."

"But you meant to mention it? You meant to ask if I would join, didn't you?"

He hesitates, looks down and notices her hands, the way she keeps moving her fingers inside of her mittens, trying to not let the cold take its toll, and he takes off his gloves and reaches over.

"What are you doing?"

"Trust me, Lizzie."

Slowly and with purpose, he removes either side and takes her hands into his, encloses them, warm and secure, his fingers moving across her palm, across her wrist, the cold gradually vanishing and her gaze fixated on every motion, every turn, until suddenly he stops, until suddenly he holds their hands perfectly still, his wrapped around hers, and she thinks she understands it now. There  _is_  something about this corner of the world. Something daring, something new.

Without a single look at her, he lets go.

"We should get back. It's getting late."

He helps her up, puts his gloves back on in the most casual manner he can muster.

"And yes," he tells her.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I meant to ask. Many times."

* * *

They decide to give it another day. The skies are covered in clouds, miles and miles without a star in sight, and it would seem like a futile endeavor to chase the lights on this very night.  _Tomorrow_ , he says before disappearing into his bedroom,  _I'm sure we'll have better luck_.

It's not particularly late but the fresh air has made her tired and she follows his example, bids him goodnight and closes the door behind her.

She still hasn't fully unpacked and she walks over to her bag, takes out stacks of clothes and puts them into the closet bit by bit, until she notices a wooden box on the bottom shelf, hidden in the back. She hesitates, doesn't want to intrude, and it  _surely_  must be personal and it  _surely_  must be stowed away for a reason, but there's a tag hanging off its side and she reaches for it, her curiosity getting the best of her, and turns it around.

_Aurora_. A single word. That familiar handwriting.

Carefully, she pulls the box forward and places it on the bed, opens it with some care.

She doesn't know what she expected to find but somehow, yes, this makes perfect sense. Books.  Some scientific, some full of myths and legends, tales of the lights appearing to sailors at sea, celestial maps, a treasure chest of keepsakes. She selects only a few, spreads them out around her and starts reading.

* * *

"Lizzie? Are you alright?"

There's a knock on her door and she realizes she must have forgotten about the time completely, the hour past midnight now, and she feels a sting of guilt for making him worry.

"Yes, come in."

He opens the door slowly, steps inside still impeccably dressed, and she wonders why he's still awake, which memories have kept him up.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you but I noticed your light was on and I wanted to make sure—" He pauses and takes in the scene in front of him. "So you found them. The books."

"I didn't mean to pry."

"Oh Lizzie, I would have hidden them much more carefully if I didn't want you to discover them."

"They're remarkable."

"They are, yes." There's more he wants to say but it's late and he wouldn't know where to begin. "Well, I will leave you to it then. Goodnight."

He's almost out in the hall before she stops him.

"Stay."

He turns and looks at her with slight disbelief.

"What did you say?"

"Stay. Please. Tell me about them. The stories. The reason you've kept them all these years." She moves over to one side of the bed, makes room, makes the choice for him, and he sits down next to her, their backs resting against the headboard and their legs surrounded by books, his doubts suddenly gone and the words falling into place like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

He picks up a leather-bound edition and runs his fingers along its edges.

"They were my mother's, all these volumes. She had a whole collection she would read to me when I was a boy."

He can feel her watching him, keeps his eyes fixed on his hands.

"The lights up north. She was fascinated by them but she knew she'd never be lucky enough to see them in person. And so she would tell me stories and we'd imagine what they might look like and if the colors would be as vivid as people say and if they'd make dreams come true."

"Like shooting stars."

"Yes. Or Polaris."

"Do people wish upon Polaris?"

"I think the two of us have. Wouldn't you say, Lizzie?"

He looks at her then, briefly but with meaning, with something close to a confession, before continuing.

"In any case, I've always promised myself I'd look for them should I ever get the chance. And now here we are."

There's nothing she can say, nothing she can add, wants to let his words linger instead, wants to keep them close. Gently, she leans against his side and lets her head rest on his shoulder.

"And yes," she tells him.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I have wished upon Polaris."

With a smile, he turns his head, presses a kiss to her hair and closes his eyes.


	5. I'm Glad You Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been so kind and lovely. We still have some chapters to go so I hope it'll continue to be enjoyable for you all.

He dreams of second chances. About a life that’s kinder,  _softer_ , less lonely perhaps and forgiving.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, just rest his eyes for a moment and return to his room when her breathing had eventually slowed down, and he had almost,  _almost_  followed his own instructions, had almost,  _almost_ , simply turned off the lamp on the nightstand and headed for the door. Until she had stirred, until her hand had moved to his side of the bed finding nothing but emptiness and cold.

It didn’t seem fair. To be the one leaving.

And yes, maybe it had been a mere coincidence and maybe it didn’t mean a thing.

But maybe, just maybe, she had reached for him for the same reason she had followed him across the ocean, for the same reason she had leaned closer that first night, for the same reason she had asked him to stay.

With a shake of his head, he had walked over to the bed and lain down beside her, her fingertips brushing against his side, searching and confirming and finally perfectly still.

And there in the darkness, somewhere between the recklessness of midnight and the opportunities of dawn, he had thought about drawn lines in the sand and clues that pointed at one simple truth.

A truth that seemed too fundamental to ignore and too unfathomable to accept. 

She loved him, too.

* * *

She’s gone.

The bed is empty and his doubts set in like clockwork and he reprimands himself for jumping to conclusions, something he has become so very good at.

It takes him a moment to notice that someone has covered him with a blanket, has made sure he’s warm and comfortable, and it isn’t until then that he checks his watch and realizes he hasn’t slept this late in years.

Well.

Still somewhat tired but relieved, he rises and spots a folded up piece of paper by the threshold, picks it up and reads with quiet amusement.

_Breakfast and coffee are waiting downstairs whenever you’re ready._

_P.S.: Good morning, Red._

_P.P.S.: Thank you for staying._

Yes, maybe, just maybe, he would allow himself to believe in that second chance.

Just this once.

* * *

"I think I'm having a déjà vu."

He meets her in the kitchen in the same spot he himself had been standing in the day before, her back turned towards him and the knit sweater she had picked as her morning outfit all too familiar.

“You’re not the only one. It’ll all be over in a second, though, I can promise you. I can’t possibly compete with your breakfast artistry. But I have my methods.” She stops then and turns to look at him. “You look rested."

“I am."

"I was hoping I didn't wake you. Any dreams?"

"Plenty."

"Good ones, I hope."

"Without exception." He doesn't elaborate but his soft smile speaks volumes as he walks over and joins her by the counter. “So what are we having?”

"Pastries."

"I sense a theme."

"But not just any pastries."

"No?"

"No. A personalized selection."

"And how so?"

"I headed to the bakery down the street and mentioned your name."

"Oh Lizzie, you are extraordinary."

"You've got quite the reputation, Red."

"As the equally charming and mysterious traveler from overseas?"

"I believe they called you 'sweet tooth'. Could be a nice change for your business card."

"Doesn't sound quite as intimidating as 'Concierge of Crime' now, does it?"

"Pastry aficionado, perhaps?"

"Much better."

He grabs a few plates from the cabinets and sets the table, savors the domestic atmosphere they've created so easily. It's a routine they've grown accustomed to while on the run all those years ago, some established structures in the middle of haste and uncertainty. A chance to breathe. Now, with her presence chasing away the darkness that lingers so closely, with the comfort of shared time and shared memories, he can't help but feel grateful.

"A blueberry danish for your thoughts, Red," she teases when she finally joins him. "You seem somewhat pensive this morning."

"It's not nearly as profound as you might expect, Lizzie."

It's her kind gaze that urges him to proceed, to reveal what's been on his mind.

"I've been thinking," he begins.

"About?"

"You, mostly."

"And?"

He could tell her. About his assumptions, about his feelings, about the fact that every dream, every possibility of a second chance, had revolved around her. Still revolves around her. Will  _always_  revolve around her.

He could.

_He could._

"And how lovely you look in that sweater."

She knows it's not what he had meant to say, he can see it in her eyes, the profiling, the questions rising, he had told her the very same thing the day before after all, but she simply smiles and pours them more coffee.

"I want to thank you again, Red."

"For what?"

"For not leaving last night. I know you had planned on it. I know you well enough to be certain of that. And I'm glad you didn't."

It's there somewhere, in the silence between them, the unspoken words that hold all their secrets.

_You chose me, Red._

The bond they both cling to.

And the truth that made him stay.

_I always will, Lizzie._

* * *

They spend the rest of the day much like they started it, chatting and enjoying each other's company, the options to pass the time rather limited with a blizzard raging, the world outside turning into a monotonous white haze.

She continues reading his mother's books, has brought a stack down into the living room so he can follow along, sometimes listening to the words spoken aloud, sometimes watching over her shoulder as she leans back into the cushions of the couch, her feet propped up on the table in front of her and a blanket swung over her legs, yes, that perfect imagery of home, and he secretly hopes, secretly wishes, that the storm will last just a bit longer. He surely wouldn't mind.

It's late afternoon when the jet lag sets in and he watches her shift to find a more comfortable position, her eyes already closed when she whispers his name.

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"Do you still feel lucky?"

He's quiet for a moment, the answer so simple yet so heavy on his tongue. He wouldn't know where to possibly begin.

"Immeasurably."

* * *

"Red, wake up."

"What's going on?"

"You fell asleep."

"What?"

"Well, technically we fell asleep."

"We?"

"And I can see the stars."

He's too tired to make sense of her words, too distracted by her hand on his arm to think clearly, and she smiles because he must look as confused as he feels.

"I can see the stars, Red. The storm has cleared. Do you know what that means?"

He sits up and rubs his eyes, her fingertips still warm on his skin and her voice so impossibly tender, full of wonder, full of hope, as she answers her own question.

"It means we are going to find the lights."


	6. Look Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, here we are. I hope I did it justice. Enjoy and thank you all for reading!

“And you checked the forecast?”  

“Yes.”

“And the kp index?”

“I did.”

“And it’s looking promising?”

“Red, it’s looking perfect,” she says with determination, with kindness, tries to convince him that all the odds are in their favor. “I’ve packed blankets, tea, even some leftover pastries from this morning. We are all set. So all I need you to do is to get up, put on your best aurora attire, and to trust me. Okay?”

With his mind catching up to the present, he spots them there out of the corner of his eye, his mother’s books stacked up on the table, urging him, guiding him, and when he looks back at her, her expression leaving not a single doubt, he leans in and kisses her cheek.

“Okay.”

* * *

It doesn't take them long to get ready. They’ve had their fair share of practice now, all layered up to deter the cold as best as they could, and he grabs the bag she’s prepared, ever grateful for her company, and leads them down the street to the car.

“Here we are.”

“A pickup truck,” she observes with some surprise.

“Yes.”

She had noticed the car parked nearby when she had first arrived and yet had never made the connection. Of course it belonged to the house, it seems laughably obvious now, but she can’t fully shake the unease creeping up in her memories and he can sense it, too.

“Are you alright, Lizzie?” he asks as he helps her get in and moves around to the driver’s side.

“I am,” she responds with some hesitation. “Let’s just not stop at any gas stations this time.”

She recalls the moment she had walked out and he had been gone, the panic that had rushed through her veins, the one person in the world she needed to be there, and she can see him watching her, can feel his concern radiating as he reaches over and puts his hand over hers, as he moves his thumb back and forth, that ever reliant gesture that has stayed with her through all these years, that has granted her strength and comfort when times had seemed most dire.

“No gas stations,” he confirms in a soft tone. “I’ll be right by your side.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he withdraws his hand and starts the engine.

“Well then, Lizzie. Let’s find our lights, shall we?”

* * *

They drive in silence for quite some time, away from the city lights and past the niveous Norwegian countryside, until they find the perfect spot, an open space on the side of the road, a meadow, she assumes, in the springtime, near the edge of a forest. With the car parked and her anticipation surging, she steps out into the cold.

She can't remember ever experiencing such utter darkness, all-encompassing and strangely peaceful, the pristine snow creaking beneath her feet at every move and her gaze slowly wandering upward, past the silhouettes of treetops toward the sky, her heart skipping a beat at the sight in front of her.

"I've never seen this many stars in my life," she says somewhat overwhelmed.

"It's quite magnificent, isn't it?"

"It's breathtaking."

She wonders if he'll point out Polaris to her later, a feat that seems near impossible with all these bright spots glowing above them.

"I'm going to get the fire started," he interrupts her thoughts. "We will be here for some time presumably, so we might as well stay warm."

"A fire?"

"Yes, there's logs in the truck."

"Logs?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Lizzie. This isn't exactly my first aurora rodeo."

"You really are a man of many talents, Red. Sweet tooth and lumberjack."

She can hear him chuckle as he returns to the car, tightens her coat to shield herself from the wind. It seems unreal, this entire situation, stargazing in the middle of nowhere so far from home, a notion downright absurd even a week ago when she had rummaged through old files to complete her paperwork. She's so glad he called. She's so very glad he called.

For a moment, she's too lost in thought to notice it, the fog rising in the distance, flickering almost, moving higher and higher, expanding, multiplying, until her eyes catches it, until she remembers the stories in the books, the descriptions,  _daylight in the night_ , and suddenly, as shades of green become visible, she realizes with staggering relief what she's witnessing.

Quickly, she heads back towards the car, towards  _him_ , calls his name with some urgency.

“Red?”

“Just a moment, Lizzie. Im trying to—"

“Red.”

He turns then, her voice so full of promise and her expression so ecstatic.

“What is it?”

“Look up.”

It's not how he had imagined them. It's not like the photos he had seen or the legends he had studied. It all seems awfully trivial now in comparison.

No, none of it could ever do it justice, this spectacle that was unfolding before his eyes, dancing across the starlit sky, vanishing, reappearing, colors changing in the matter of seconds, a sight he couldn't possibly put into words nor would he want to. It had been worth the wait. It had been worth every struggle.

He's stunned into silence by all of it and she observes his profile, his emotions playing out so distinctly across his features, takes his hand and holds on to it.

"How about we spread out the blankets in the back of the truck? Like a drive-in theater. I heard someone say we will be here for some time," she suggests softly. "Might as well get comfortable."

* * *

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Positively cozy. This was a tremendous idea, Lizzie."

It's just as she had proposed it, the bed of the truck surprisingly comfortable with the right adjustments, him sitting next to her and the lights coming and going around them, something out of a dream.

"You were right in feeling lucky."

"I suppose I was."

"And you've kept your promise, Red. She would have loved it."

"Yes. Yes, she would have. Thank you, Lizzie."

"For what?"

"Well, waking me up earlier, first of all. But most importantly for being here. For letting your sense of adventure get the best of you. For sharing this with me."

"We are stuck with each other, remember?"

"I recall something of the kind."

She has thought about it before, everything that happens next.  _If_ it would happen. And how. The right place, the right time. The inevitability of it. That first, determining step that would be all hers because it would have to be. The lines in the sand. How they'd vanish. And what he would do. What he would say.

And now, she can grasp it, all the answers she's been seeking and her feelings resonating in the space between them, and she doesn’t think about it much when she turns her head, doesn’t sense any doubts when she presses her lips to his, her mind not sleep-deprived, her intentions not reckless, not daring, no, she’s wide awake this time and all of this, every piece of the puzzle, the way his eyes close at the contact, the way she leans into him, the way she can feel his heart racing, makes perfect sense. She wouldn’t have it any other way. And when it’s over, when he stares at her with blatant adoration, it all seems to fall into place.

“I’m glad you did that,” he whispers, slightly breathless still.

“And why is that, Red?”

He moves closer, always closer, a secret not meant for the world around them.

“Because according to Norse mythology, kissing beneath the lights means good fortune.”

Slowly, softly, she brushes her lips against his for a second time.

“You made that up, didn’t you?” she asks in a hushed tone.

With a youthful smile, he pulls the blanket over the two of them and looks back up toward the sky.

“Completely.”


	7. And Then She Waits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for making you guys wait. Life happened. I hope this makes up for it.

It takes some effort, parting with this spectacle around them, leaving this magical spot behind, but it’s late and the way back shouldn’t be underestimated, not with the icy roads and the snow slowly falling, it’s the sensible thing to do, really, to return to whatever awaits them back at the house. Reality, maybe. Questions. Or blissful ignorance, all consequences be damned. They haven’t quite decided yet. 

They don’t talk because there’s not much to say. Every few miles she surreptitiously catches a glimpse of his profile, does her best to appear casual, but her head is spinning and the urge to touch him, to reach out, is sending a current down her spine, into her fingertips, something powerful, something seeking, _it’s okay_ , it tells her, _go ahead, he won’t mind_. With some hesitation she gives in finally, places her hand on top of his as it rests on the console between them. He doesn’t move to look at her, doesn’t even flinch, but he turns his palm up, offers her some contact, smiles softly when their hands are finally intertwined. Driving deeper into the night, he hopes these wonders never cease. 

* * *

“So...,” he begins when they finally cross the threshold, his eyes averting hers with some skill. 

“So.”

“We should probably get some rest.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” 

“Well, I—“ _I love you, Lizzie_. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

She watches him as he makes his way upstairs, as he leaves her there without another word as if the world hadn’t fundamentally shifted for the two of them tonight, as if there’ll ever be a return to _before_. She’ll remember it as it happened, as life before the lights and after, before kissing Raymond Reddington.

And after. 

She walks into the living room, doesn’t really feel like sleeping, doesn’t think she’d be able to. The stack of books still rests on the coffee table and she smiles to herself, yes, she thinks, she understands it now. This fascination. 

She pours herself a glass of water and wanders aimlessly around the room, pondering, contemplating, indulges in the theatrics of it, imagines he’s done the same thing many times. The house is completely still and she wonders if he followed his own advice, if he’s resting or if he’s wide awake. She’d place high bets on the latter. 

_We are stuck with each other._

The thought comforts her now. It’s why she doesn’t feel uncertain anymore, it’s why she wants to cherish every moment that unfolded between them tonight, it’s why she has no doubts left. There’s power in that, relief and hope, and she understands how he must feel and why he didn’t manage to look at her and why he didn’t take that next step and why he’s by himself now and not by her side. She’s been there, longer than she would like to admit. 

He’s scared. Scared of the repercussions and the depth of his emotions and yes, she’s been _there_ , too. Has faced the prospect of losing him, in dreams and in reality, has come so frighteningly close to feeling his heartbeat vanish beneath her palm. 

But they’ve waited for so long. And morning is still hours away. 

She finds a piece of paper on the kitchen counter, scribbles down a few words and makes her way upstairs and down the hall to his room. 

Carefully, she slips the note under his door and returns to the living room. 

And then she waits. 

* * *

He holds the piece of paper in his hand like an artifact, like a treasured work of art, something that belongs in a museum, something that should be marveled at by thousands. 

He had listened to her walking up the stairs, the light on the nightstand turned off in mere seconds, had tried to control his breathing when she had stopped outside his door. 

And then, silence. Anticipation. His pulse rushing. 

A rustling as her note appeared by the threshold, a heavy sigh when she turned around and left him there. 

He had stared at it for a few moments, needed to gather the courage to reach for it. When he finally did, his fingers almost trembled. 

Five words he would cling to for the hours, the weeks, the years to come. 

_Red,_

_I love you too._

* * *

It takes him a little longer than she would have predicted.

His expression is indecipherable as he steps into the room, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. He looks strangely helpless, she notices, keeps his distance. She can't remember ever seeing him like this. 

"Lizzie, I’m—" He stops. He’s unprepared, he realizes now after opening his mouth to list his concerns, his questions, his declarations, his promises. She’s rendered him quite speechless. 

"Red, come here,“ she tells him and her voice is calm and determined and impossibly soft, and if he’s dreaming, if this is all a cruel trick of his mind, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s ever had to face, no, he’d rather stay here, in this world where these moments seem possible. 

She makes room for him on the couch as he crosses the living room and sits down beside her, the space between them marginal at best and the air around them heavy with tension, and something else, something he now knows the name of. 

"I got your note,“ he says.

"I figured.“

"And I’m awake?“

"Well, you don't necessarily look the part but I would say yes. You are very much awake.“

"And you meant it?"

"Yes, Red. Of course."

He stares at her, all disbelief and wonder, and she thinks she's never been more certain of anything, that she's never longed for anything more, for _anyone_ more. 

_What do you really want?_  

Him. She just wants him. And when she leans in for a second time that night, when he closes his eyes, when all the hesitation leaves his mind and his body relaxes, when he finally believes her, when he kisses her back with purpose and with yearning, her heart positively _soars_. 

"I apologize for leaving earlier," he whispers when he pulls back. 

"You don't have to."

"I didn't mean to be presumptuous." 

"No, that’s something I could never accuse you of, Red." 

Another kiss, his fingertips tracing her spine.

"Should we move upstairs?" he asks and it's confident, it's tempting. 

She smiles. Then nods. 

"Yes. I think we should."


End file.
